Wrapped-up Gail: Week 90 in West Virginia on a 16.5-mile hike starting at 4,500 feet.

Week 90: 10/29/05, The Greatest Day Hiker Of Them All had a new day of glory on Saturday, October 29 in the wilds of West Virginia. If she were a girl scout, say, she'd have earned at least a half dozen merit and achievement badges over an eight-and a-half-hour period that day--for tracking, bravery, judgment, determination, wildlife ID and on and on. Details in a moment, but first some other good stuff before the big day . . .

West Virginia's Cranberry Glades Wilderness, ranging in elevation from about 4,500 feet down to about 2.500 feet along the pretty Williams River, gives real credence to the beauty and power of untouched forest.

On our Glades visit, we warmed up with short walks, on arrival day, on the boardwalk out into the Cranberry bogs and a walk to see the three falls of Hills Creek. The next day we took the 7-mile loop around the bogs, before going back to our very nifty cabin at Watoga State Park, showering up and heading into Marlinton to watch Chris Smither perform at the Pocahontas County Opera House.

But the real goal of the trip was realized on Saturday, when Gail and I left the warm fire of the cabin behind and headed out into the sub-freezing morning for the drive to the trailhead for 16.5-mile loop along the North Fork and Big Beechy trails in the wilderness. This was just a few days after a major snow in the West Virginia mountains, and as we gained elevation along the Highlands Scenic Highway (W.Va. 150, which signs advise is not plowed), we crunched through re-frozen slush sometimes even in the travel lanes. Around us, the forest was covered in white.

Which is one thing. It's another to step out of the car into below-freezing temps, slip a little on the ice and then look into the woods where the trail begins and see that trail fully covered in snow as you pull on another layer or two and get out the big gloves you never thought you'd use in October. We began at 10:30 a.m, and, for the first two miles or so, tussled with spruce, rhododendron and beech, all hanging or broken over the trail with heavy snow and nailed in place by more heavy snow holding the ends of branches against the ground. The effect on the outer layer of clothing was much the same as walking in falling snow, with major detours every 20 feet at some points.

As the trail began its descent toward the river, the snow depth lessened, until--sometime after the second crossing--we found ourselves walking in a completely different season than the one we'd started in.
The beech and maple forest along the river was fall-colored; the air warm enough to take off your gloves and let our ears peek out from under your hat; and the ground had only a patch of snow here and there.
TGDHOTA had already earned a badge or two or three for leading us through the snowfields and keeping us on the trail through the snow.
Now, as we calculated time and realized how much the snow had slowed us from our usual pace, she kicked her usual strong stride up another two or three notches. We'd been averaging only a mile per half hour, and with sunset at about 6:30, we were, at the established pace, going to need every bit of our eight hours to walk, with no time for lunch.

Armed with this news, Gail attacked the flat, easy part of the hike. We still encountered trees felled from the heavy snow, but for about two miles to Big Beechy Run, I had to fight the urge to break into an occasional jog to keep up. Badge No. 4 (at least) for The Day Hiker: We will eat our lunch, Kurt, in a leisurely and enjoyable pace the way we always do; we'll enjoy this pretty falls here next to us, and feel the sun on our faces and take the break we've earned; put the daggone watch away for a little while.

And though we did deny it briefly during lunch, we both knew that the 8.5-mile back-end of this loop would be more challenging than the first half. Instead of descending, we would now CLIMB back to 4,500 feet; we would leave the autumn behind and re-enter wintertime as the daylight waned; we would be on a trail with only occasional blazes, in a relatively remote part of a wilderness area.

The climb up Big Beechy gave us no momentum. The trail was narrow and full of roots and more fallen or bent trees. The snow reappeared quickly and our pace--given the climb and impediments--was closer to the half-hour-per-mile than the 18-20 minutes TGDHOTA had put us through along the river. Gail's strength, determination and good judgment soon came to glorious fruition as the forest began to present just an edge of danger: With rare and undependable blazing, with the deep blanket of snow unbroken by anything except the occasional animal print and with innumerable trees bent and broken throughout the woods, there was simply no visible trail. Between those trees over there looked just as likely to be the trail as between those other two, or those over there, or maybe these right here. Heavy snow is a great equalizer of the forest floor.

And so, for a nearly grueling six-mile stretch as the day drained away, Gail pushed away branches, crawled under crushed rhododendron, feinted this way and then chose that way to keep us going, to keep us on the trail. My role from behind was not just to marvel but to look for specks of blue paint on tree trunks as often as not pasted with blown snow. Gail took solace every time she took us through an old sawcut on a fallen tree--surefire evidence of a trail in a wilderness; and I called out "blue paint!" every time I saw some.

At 6:30, the sky to the west was a beautiful pink-orange, at the edge of an otherwise darkening-blue sky. Gail, ordinarily a fan of pretty sunsets, glanced only briefly to the right as she upped her pace against the two miles we still had to go. By now we were back in nearly a foot of snow, with fallen trees and shrubs blocking the path again and again. The light seemed to hold on for us as she led us toward the end of the loop. It was not until the last quarter mile, as the last edge of dusk gave way, that I wondered to myself how in the world she was keeping up this pace--over rocks and roots, through frozen spots and mud-holes--when you could not see where your next footfall would land. We emerged from the forest at 7:05.

At the end of this, our most challenging winter hike (in October!), we got in the car, turned on the engine and began peeling off layers wet from both inside and outside, taking off boots never before so wet, and then pulling on new dry clothing for our drive back to the cabin.
Inside Cabin 34--the Honeymoon Cabin the park lady had called it--it took perhaps another 20 minutes for the fire to build to a point that the full chill was gone from us. The full thrill remains.

Click here for the archive of Kurt's Hikes